


time for that later

by minorthirds



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Gen, M/M, drabbles/oneshots, micro-fiction, the name of the game is Caleb is Repressed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-02
Updated: 2018-03-09
Packaged: 2019-03-25 23:05:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13844916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minorthirds/pseuds/minorthirds
Summary: Caleb orbits Mollymauk, and he isn't sure how to stop.Micro-fiction "deleted scenes" chaptered by episode.II. Steam and Conversation





	1. The Gates of Zadash

**Author's Note:**

> i started writing this literally right after caleb almost died AGAIN because i was very stressed and it just kept expanding. so! here's this! i would've written one for last week's episode with The Forehead Kiss but, uh, i was several weeks behind... so hopefully doing this will encourage me to keep up to date with the episodes as they air, since this is a pretty fun way to spend the time as one of those hyperactive folk who need to keep their hands busy.
> 
> i'm not sure what will become of this, but... away we go!

 

 

* * *

_i._

 

Caleb awakens to the impact of something cold and wet directly between his eyebrows.

With a groan, he sits up, the only-slightly-healed trio of crossbow bolt holes in his chest giving sharp _twang-twangs!_ as he rubs his face, his wet glove like a cold rag jolting him further awake with its bracing chill.

Jester and Mollymauk are exchanging comments about the weather. Fjord a little further away is reaching for a heavy cloak to shroud his head.

Caleb looks at the clouds, the grey spools of what could be fleece looking dour in the pale light.

A heavy but soft _thump_ ; Mollymauk has tossed his cloak onto the cart, stretching his arms in the freezing drizzle. Distantly, Caleb realizes he’s staring in Molly’s direction overlong, but he thinks nothing of it – his thoughts moving slow as molasses, still rattled from the _one-two-three_ impacts of the bolts from last night, just following the bandit sneer of “ _clever motherfucker_ ” and chaos and shouting and _fire_ –

Molly catches his eye and Caleb jolts back to himself, glancing away, clenching his jaw against the image of Mollymauk’s soaked vest and shirt clinging, clinging to his stone-cut lavender clavicle.

  

* * *

  _ii._

 

The cart rattles and Caleb’s injuries smart.

The rain hasn’t let up in a few hours; Nott has her hand on the reins of the cart’s horses and the rest of his companions, their friends, _the Mighty Nein_ are astride the horses Nott had pilfered from the bandits as they fled – or so Caleb had been told, with plenty of toothy goblin grins as Nott recounted the _antics_ he had either been unconscious for or been too muddled to properly comprehend the first time around.

He’s glad. It seems likely that Jester would have made, as some of their motley group would say, _a stink_ if she were close enough to bear witness to his jerking winces every time a muddy pothole causes the cart to jerk and jostle him.

Frumpkin is an outward representation of his sour mood, burrowed as far under Caleb’s thigh as he can possibly manage to avoid the all-encompassing downpour and yowling pitifully moment after moment nigh without cease.

Without a horse to guide, Caleb is left to his own devices. And left to his own devices, his first instinct – that is, when reading is lost to him – is to watch. So his tired eyes, glazed with ache and pain, follow the horizon and the mudded road their poor farmland horses plod through.

Like this he passes the time, letting his eyes slide over the –

wait.

The uncut rocks, scarce more than boulders, clustered in a patch like lonely crones are too regular to be natural. Caleb’s eyes fixate on them, and he makes a noise low in his throat before he remembers how to speak, to beseech Nott to halt the cart.

A soft whinny follows him over to the modest graveyard, he can now recognize the cluster of stones as, to which he’s ostensibly wandering toward in order to relieve himself – a glance over his shoulder informs Caleb that Mollymauk is leading his steed the same direction, the multitude of jewels and gems dangling from his horns also dripping water as if the tiefling himself were encrusted in liquid diamond.

Caleb looks away.

The soft _pit-patter_ of rain masks the sound as he accomplishes his task, his back turned for possibly more his own sake than Molly’s across the graveyard; there’s a certain twinge low in his stomach when he considers their proximity, the proximity he has been trying and trying to keep at bay by manner of rooms with Nott, with Nott, with only Nott –

Molly’s horse whinnies again and Caleb shakes himself, finishes his relief and secures his trousers again.

The graveyard in its innocent mystery guides him once more into his inquisitive mind, into keen eyes and magic and _educated_ guesses swarming across the front of his thoughts, and he revels in the opportunity to dismiss the other portion of his thoughts for another time.

Another time.

 

* * *

_iii._

 

The warmth of the shop, the _Invulnerable Vagrant,_ is thawing Caleb’s bones from the inside out – and the warmth of the magic flowing over him only adds to the sensation.

He feels violated.

Enchanter Pumat Sol has his hand raised, banishing every speck of dirt from Caleb’s skin, and he cannot help but arch his neck, his spine, as if to get _away, away_ from the gentle embrace of the magic, the methodical manner of its invasion.

He has worn the muck, the filth like armor. Unpleasant, yes, but that is rather the _point –_ like him, the way he is, Caleb prefers to be afforded the _doubt_ rather than the _benefit_ , to be dismissed out-of-hand because of his garb and his grime rather than invest _so much_ and _so much_ into the slow death of failing to meet expectations.

So he stands, _disarmed,_ in front of his friends, his companions, _the Mighty Nein,_ and he wants nothing more than to go outside and stand in the mud and the rain and wait for passing carts to splash him seven, eight, nine times. To rub it into his skin and feel – unclean, yes, but _safe._

Mollymauk is looking at him.

They all are – it’s a spectacle, of course, their own _vagrant_ , made _vulnerable._

That can be Caleb’s private joke, later, when he is attempting to recover from the mental shock of the firbolg stripping him more thoroughly than the _fire_ had.

But for now Mollymauk is looking at him.

Caleb looks away.

 


	2. Steam and Conversation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caleb's meditations on nudity and hot baths.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's this, again, really sloppy because i'm writing literally during the episode and not editing since im listening to the show as i write LOL
> 
> but i hope it's enjoyable as rambly and as untidy as it is, because, well... that's caleb also
> 
> so enjoy, i hope!!

* * *

 

_iv._

 

Mollymauk and Nott are conspiring; the pair of them (and Jester tagging along) have decided to hunt down the nearest bathhouse for welcome respite before their first sleep in Zadash.

Caleb pretends not to hear, dipping his quill back into the inkwell, scratching glyph after glyph in the long, delicate process of copying the spell.

But part of him – his right side – is cold at the notion of Nott out there without him, Nott anywhere but by his side. Regardless of Mollymauk’s confidence, trustworthiness (the jury is out on that one yet but Caleb knows he’s at least not a _danger_ ) –

It is still hard to believe, yet, that Nott has people that aren’t him. _Aren’t_ him.

One less thing for him to _be._

And he’s not sure if that’s better... or worse.

Mollymauk and Nott are searching the dark of Zadash for the bathhouse, and Caleb wishes beyond his better judgment that he had gone.

Mollymauk and the bathhouse.

Caleb coughs and rubs his face in a moment of distraction from the spell, in a moment of distraction from his thoughts, feeling his face gone ruddy and not just from the flame-glow of his candle, drip-dripping away, wax sliding down like droplets of water along an iron-hard torso.

His hand quakes, splatters a single circle of ink.

Caleb firms his mouth and settles back to work.

  

* * *

 

_v._

 

Caleb’s skin is hot in the water.

He had put up as much protest as he could have without raising undue curiosity but here he is – here they _all_ are in the bathhouse for their _conversation_ on what they are going to do next. Their “meeting” is repurposed because of the presence of the woman from the circus, Yasha, and Caleb watches Mollymauk as he circles the common bath and presses a kiss to the top of Yasha’s bi-colored, matted-haired head and thanks any god who will listen here in Zadash (one of the legal six or Jester’s Traveler or any other deity who deigns to turn him their ear) that there’s been a distraction set between his companions and the _curiosity_ his existence piques in them.

The lines of ink tracing Mollymauk’s skin undulate under the steam, and Caleb can watch the transformation from peacock to flower to snake tracing down Mollymauk’s arm, follow the lines that draw every image together –

he can, but he doesn’t, instead letting himself sink down under the water, bubbles lifting before his eyes and hiding his nude, clean skin from all of his newfound _friends,_ suddenly more than aware that there is nothing keeping him separate from them than distance and steam.

Some traitorous, terrified part of his mind wonders if he can melt into the water like this and cease to exist entirely; the Mighty Nein without him can have all the glory their greedy hearts call for –

he remembers Mollymauk shaking his head in solidarity with Caleb’s fears and it weighs low in his stomach.

He’s being ridiculous. He knows that. It’s that same old fear and every time he thinks he’s conquered it, something happens. He lets down _somebody_.

And here, in this place, in this bathhouse – he can’t hide behind the shabbiness of his clothes and his appearance and his demeanor, can’t use it as armor against the insight of his companions, and Caleb thinks for a second – not even, the barest sliver of a second – that he hates Molly for taking them here –

the thought barely crystallizes like ice in his breath before the hot bath melts it away.

His _predicament,_ his _damage_ is no one’s fault.

At the bottom of the hot bath Caleb thinks, not for the first time and not for the last, _I am a fool._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> most likely will not update every week, as some episodes lend themselves better to character arc development than others; i hope to pick the most effective episodes to expand upon and i hope those of you who have read and enjoyed thus far will be happy to see me back again when i do!


End file.
